ight became obvious. A number of dragoons,
dismounted, half-clothed, and apparently free from all discipline, came
rushing down North Street. As they swept past the entrance of the side
street Neal had a clear view of them over the heads of the crowd. In a
moment they had passed out of sight again, but the moment was enough.
Running with the soldiers, his arm gripped by a dragoon, but running
with his own free will, was James Finlay. Neal was stung to fury by the
sight of this man. He had no doubt at all now that he had to do with
a traitor. He drove his heels against his horse's side, lashed at the
creature's flanks with his rod, and fairly forced his way through the
cursing, shouting crowd into North Street.

At the far end of the street he saw the dragoons raging and rioting
round a house which stood a storey higher than any other near it. The
whole length of the street lay almost empty before him. The soldiers had
effectually cleared a way for themselves. He rode towards the scene
of the riot. He saw that two civilians were defending the front of the
house against the soldiers. They fought with sticks, and Neal recognised
one of them as his uncle, Donald Ward. Before he could reach them
they were forced into the house, and followed indoors by some of the
dragoons. James Finlay had disappeared. Neal hesitated and stopped,
uncertain what to do. Some of the soldiers placed a ladder against
the wall. One of them mounted, with a sledge hammer in his hand, and
battered at the iron supports which held a signboard to the wall. The
iron bars bent under his blows, the holdfasts were torn from the wall,
and the painted board fell into the street. A yell of triumph greeted
the fall. The soldiers stamped on the board with their heavy boots and
hacked at it with their swords. Then another man mounted the ladder with
a splintered fragment in his hand. He whirled it round his head, and
flung it far down the street.

"There's for the rebelly sign," he shouted. "There's for Dumouriez!
There's the way we treat damned French and Irish croppies."

The crowd, which had gathered courage and followed Neal down the street,
answered him with a groan and a volley of stones. The man sprang from
the ladder, called to his comrades, and in a moment the dragoons drew
together and, their swords in their hands, charged the crowd. Neal's
horse, terrified by the shouting, became unmanageable. Neal flung
himself to the ground, staggered, was knocked